Growing up in England, my two children were both active in their various endeavours and able to mix with local children living nearby in the West Dorset countryside. My daughter became interested in riding at the age of 7 and after several private lessons, joined a branch of the Pony Club of Great Britain, (founded in 1929). We, my daughter and her younger brother, were friends with another family living a mile away and they and a farmer friend, sometimes went off for the day on Pony Club rallies and other various gatherings.
Because I was divorced in England in 1984, I started a small business sewing and doing alterations etc. This eventually lead to expanding it, making soft furnishings from what was called a 'cottage industry' in those days - working from home, but full time developing it into a successful business. Originally I'd put a small advertisement in the village shop window one day, which was noticed by a lady who lived in London, visiting her father residing in a lovely Georgian house with extensive gardens and swimming pool. The property was on the edge of a lovely village called Thorncombe, about a mile from our cottage in beautiful hilly countryside. Farmhouses, cottages, fields and laneways cascaded down into a pretty valley and up the other side. This lady worked for Hardy Amies, a fashion designer and best known as the official dressmaker for Queen Elizabeth II from her accession to the throne in 1952 until his retirement. Her clothes were beautifully tailored and of an excellent quality and I was asked to alter them from time to time. Eventually I met her very charming father who we all called 'Pa', which he requested. He was tall and slim with a kind face and gentle manner and a true gentleman. The children and I also met other members of his family in time, but as his wife had died several years earlier, we also met a lady friend of his who visited regularly.
Pa and his friend often sat by the pool drinking coffee, reading newspapers and chatting. The children and I and our friends were sometimes invited to swim in the pool, particularly after a Pony Club meeting at Forde Abbey. This by the way, has a wonderful history, as the Abbey was originally a Cistercian monastery built between 1133-36. The grounds are substanial and the entire property was, and is possibly still privately owned by the Roper family. Their three daughters were also members of the Pony Club. The children and I walked or drove to some of the fields to pick our own strawberries or through a further field reached by walking down a deep field opposite our cottage, over a stream and up through the hamlet of Hewood, then along a path to the raspberry patch with its many rows of canes. There was a lady who lived in one of two farmhouses in Hewood who found my horse for me, which I bought and enjoyed seven wonderful years with. He was 17 years old when I bought him, and found he taught me most of what I needed to know. My farmer friend taught me certain rules about riding in the countryside and etiquette shutting gates etc. My very own horse at the age of 49! Eventually she sold the farm to the TV chef Hugh Fearnley Whittingstall.
One day while visiting, Pa and I were sitting in his lovely plant-filled conservatory having coffee, and I asked him if there was anything I could do to thank him for his kind offer in allowing us to swim in his pool. His immediate reaction was a request to make him a cake. This I gladly did and set about making him our favourite boiled fruit cake on my trusty Aga cooker. This recipe was gleaned from a cookbook sent to England by post from Australia, by my mother-in-law before she passed away. The book was called 'The Piddle Valley Cookbook', and I still have it - printed and bound in Bodmin, Cornwall in 1978, the year we all arrived in England. Recipes were contributed by ladies from the Piddle Valley in rural Dorset, Thomas Hardy country. They joined together with over 200 concoctions such as 'Rumble Thumps', 'Hubble Bubble', 'Hopel-Popel' and 'Great Grandfather's Christmas Cake' containing the very best of traditional Dorset cooking. All royalties of the book went into restoration of the village church. But this delightful book also contained a boiled fruit cake recipe, which to me, left out a few important 'goodies' such as nuts, a good slug of homemade marmalade and of course very necessary alcohol. I added whatever I had on hand, whether it be sherry, port, brandy or even whisky. For some reason the ingredients for me never got weighed. As long as the texture was right before pouring into a tin, it never let me down, not ever. This cake was always moist and totally delicious. Pa loved it and I continued to make it for him when required, or anything else that took his fancy. It was always a pleasure. The delicious cake also accompanied us on camping trips in a motorcaravan, pony club events and made each Christmas since. It was a favourite of many which kept well because of the alcohol content.
As time went on, Pa grew ill and the house needed to be sold, much to our sadness. I was asked by family members who didn't live locally, but mainly in London and elsewhere, if I would show prospective buyers over the property. Although the very capable agents from Honiton in Devon were a good 30 minues away by car, I was more than happy to oblige, and for more than one reason. In fact I was delighted I could help in some small way.
Before Pa finally moved away, he and family members offered to give me a picture from several lining the walls up a delightful corridor in the house, as a thank you. I had sometimes paused to enjoy their content when passing, (as much later in life found I enjoyed painting in watercolour, and entirely self taught.) They asked if I would choose one. I didn't feel it necessary as I was more than grateful we could swim in his pool and mix with family members over the years. But quickly my eyes found one with a title being 'A Visit to the Grandfather.' It possessed a special meaning for me and would always remind me of Pa. According to The British Museum it was painted by John Raphael Smith dated 1788 and print made by William Ward. The technique was mezzotint and dimentions are 55.5cms heigh, by 40.5cms wide. Most of the information appears on the framed print I have in my possession. It has hung on my bedroom wall ever since and will always remind me of those happy days visiting Pa in a delightful Dorset village, not one mile from our cottage and home at the time. I'd spent twenty six happy years living in West Dorset and maintain many memories of this area of outstanding natural beauty.
Saturday 25 May 2019
Friday 24 May 2019
A Small Oil Painting
A young girl gazed with awe at the mulitude of different trees in a sloping garden. Within the garden stood a large old house amidst bushy shrubs and occasional flower beds, she found so intriguing. It looked as though it all belonged in one of the mystery stories she enjoyed reading. The ten year old girl and her brother who was two years older, rarely visited the inhabitant of this huge property opposite an enormous park. But on this occasion their mother was discussing plans to take a friend who painted, to the beach for the day the following Saturday. Although the children were still enjoying their summer holidays, Saturday seemed an auspicious day in which a beach outing would occur. It wasn't clear why, but it would be very welcomed by the children, as the weather was hot and sultry. So they continued to play and explore the huge garden with its many nooks and crannies, while their mother was occupied inside. They lived not too far away and their mother was perfectly capable 0f driving the family car. In those days about ten years after the second world war, not many cars occupied the roads anyway.
Eventually they were invited to join the adults for tea with cucumber sandwiches and a piece of seed cake. Of course their mother washed their hands and faces first and straightened the young girls dress to make sure they were decent enough for this lady who was relatively unknown to them, but appeared rather pleasant, with a kindly smile and a well shaped face. The lady seemed rather middle aged to the child, as she wore her hair pinned up in a sort of scroll behind her head. They knew it was necessary to be on their best behaviour, as their mother was eyeing them suspiciously, probably wondering if one of them were to drop cake crumbs on the lady's carpet, or worse still, their drinks. They were given cold freshly made lemonade with a slice of orange in it, which was welcome indeed.
The girl quietly sipped her lemonade looking around the walls of this old Victorian room over the rim of her glass. The ceiling was high and the two windows were larger than she'd seen before, but inside the sitting room appeared dark and almost forbidding, probably because of the many large trees and bushes outside in the mysterious looking garden. Spaced out around the walls were a few framed paintings and several drawings. She wanted to walk around and look at them, but caught her mother's expression of 'no you will not'. The girl sighed and ate a mouthful of the delicious seed cake instead. But she couldn't take her eyes off the paintings and wanted so much to study them.
The very next Saturday their mother packed a picnic lunch for them all, while their father went off to umpire a cricket match. The lady painter who seemed very important for some reason to the young girl, but not knowing why, was escorted into the back seat before their mother engaged first gear and set off for the beach, well over an hour's drive from home. The weather continued very warm with several clouds wandering across a deep blue sky turning to pale cerulean on the horizon. A fitful breeze blew leaves this way and that on trees dotted along the main road, as the car travelled towards Frankston beach.
Soon after lunch was eaten, the charming lady with her hair caught up behind her head with wispy bits floating around her face, seemed eager to paint the scene in front of her. The girl's brother had already wandered off to help push two long rowing boats up onto the sand in front of a very pleasant old two story structure. It was probably a yacht club or for lifesavers who manned the beaches in certain areas, where people could swim between two flags in safety from boats or even an occasional shark.
The young girl watched the lady adjust her small easel in the sand where she proceeded to paint the scene that presented itself. She looked on in amazement as colours were daubed and dabbed onto the canvas, forming a beautiful picture slowly coming to life. Behind the two long boats, a small yacht appeared with a young man sitting towards the stern holding the tiller, with its two sails and single mast. It heaved to in shallow pale azure green water. Immediately the artist painted the sail boat into the small picture. Her older brother wearing a red shirt helping to push the long row boats onto sand, was eventually painted into the scene also, their reflections added in a gently receding light blue and azure sea. A blue sky with a scattering of clouds tinged with muted pinks similar to the colour of the sand, reflected in the shallow water, as it lapped gently onto a reddish golden sandy beach. The painting was forming into a beautifully balanced picturesque scene, much to the child's delightful enjoyment. She sat quietly watching as the lady continued earnestly with her brush and palette.
The girl's mother had returned to their car, parked not far away, with the picnic basket and collected hats and anything else they might need. A large umbrella had already been erected keeping the artist cooler in the hottest part of the day. In the distance behind the sail of the small yacht, was Olivers Hill, which rose up from the town and wound around the edge of a cliff above the sea. Deep red-gold clay and rocky cliffs cascaded down from the main road until they reached lapping waves and a foam-filled sea, crashing against rocks with an occasional piece of driftwood and seaweed bobbing on the surface.
As the afternoon and the painting drew to a close, two young boys emerged from the cool shallow water and romped on the sand nearby. Not long after, laughter was heard as one of them fell scattering grains of sand across the painting. The artist looked up in disgusted annoyance trying gently to brush them off the fresh oil paint. Not all of them were possible to remove.
As the little girl grew up, the signed painting had been bought by her parents and framed well at the time. But her mother eventually became old and unwell, and the girl who had by now reached middle age herself, asked her mother if she could have the painting some day in the future. Her father had already sadly passed away and her older brother also. She still remembers him helping to push the long wooden rowing boats up onto the beach wearing his red shirt, included in the small oil painting, that hot summer's day during their holidays.
The artist was Norma Bull who was born in 1906 and died in Melbourne in 1980, aged 74, an Australian artist best known for her painting, drawing and etchings. She lived and worked in England from 1938-1947, when she returned to Australia to continue painting. Her home known as 'Medlow' was built in 1889 and bought by the Bull family in 1911, her mother being a great lover of music and the arts. It was bequeathed at one stage to the National Trust, but since sold back into private ownership. Norma's father Dr Richard Bull, was a lecturer in bacteriology during WWI and developed typhoid vaccines. He was President of the British Medical Association in 1926.
The small oil painting scene was eventually passed down to the author of this short story, now also 74, having taken up watercolour painting herself at the mature age of 71. She still gazes up at the painting hanging on her living room wall and occasionally gently runs her fingertips over its surface to feel the few grains of sand that still remain.
Eventually they were invited to join the adults for tea with cucumber sandwiches and a piece of seed cake. Of course their mother washed their hands and faces first and straightened the young girls dress to make sure they were decent enough for this lady who was relatively unknown to them, but appeared rather pleasant, with a kindly smile and a well shaped face. The lady seemed rather middle aged to the child, as she wore her hair pinned up in a sort of scroll behind her head. They knew it was necessary to be on their best behaviour, as their mother was eyeing them suspiciously, probably wondering if one of them were to drop cake crumbs on the lady's carpet, or worse still, their drinks. They were given cold freshly made lemonade with a slice of orange in it, which was welcome indeed.
The girl quietly sipped her lemonade looking around the walls of this old Victorian room over the rim of her glass. The ceiling was high and the two windows were larger than she'd seen before, but inside the sitting room appeared dark and almost forbidding, probably because of the many large trees and bushes outside in the mysterious looking garden. Spaced out around the walls were a few framed paintings and several drawings. She wanted to walk around and look at them, but caught her mother's expression of 'no you will not'. The girl sighed and ate a mouthful of the delicious seed cake instead. But she couldn't take her eyes off the paintings and wanted so much to study them.
The very next Saturday their mother packed a picnic lunch for them all, while their father went off to umpire a cricket match. The lady painter who seemed very important for some reason to the young girl, but not knowing why, was escorted into the back seat before their mother engaged first gear and set off for the beach, well over an hour's drive from home. The weather continued very warm with several clouds wandering across a deep blue sky turning to pale cerulean on the horizon. A fitful breeze blew leaves this way and that on trees dotted along the main road, as the car travelled towards Frankston beach.
Soon after lunch was eaten, the charming lady with her hair caught up behind her head with wispy bits floating around her face, seemed eager to paint the scene in front of her. The girl's brother had already wandered off to help push two long rowing boats up onto the sand in front of a very pleasant old two story structure. It was probably a yacht club or for lifesavers who manned the beaches in certain areas, where people could swim between two flags in safety from boats or even an occasional shark.
The young girl watched the lady adjust her small easel in the sand where she proceeded to paint the scene that presented itself. She looked on in amazement as colours were daubed and dabbed onto the canvas, forming a beautiful picture slowly coming to life. Behind the two long boats, a small yacht appeared with a young man sitting towards the stern holding the tiller, with its two sails and single mast. It heaved to in shallow pale azure green water. Immediately the artist painted the sail boat into the small picture. Her older brother wearing a red shirt helping to push the long row boats onto sand, was eventually painted into the scene also, their reflections added in a gently receding light blue and azure sea. A blue sky with a scattering of clouds tinged with muted pinks similar to the colour of the sand, reflected in the shallow water, as it lapped gently onto a reddish golden sandy beach. The painting was forming into a beautifully balanced picturesque scene, much to the child's delightful enjoyment. She sat quietly watching as the lady continued earnestly with her brush and palette.
The girl's mother had returned to their car, parked not far away, with the picnic basket and collected hats and anything else they might need. A large umbrella had already been erected keeping the artist cooler in the hottest part of the day. In the distance behind the sail of the small yacht, was Olivers Hill, which rose up from the town and wound around the edge of a cliff above the sea. Deep red-gold clay and rocky cliffs cascaded down from the main road until they reached lapping waves and a foam-filled sea, crashing against rocks with an occasional piece of driftwood and seaweed bobbing on the surface.
As the afternoon and the painting drew to a close, two young boys emerged from the cool shallow water and romped on the sand nearby. Not long after, laughter was heard as one of them fell scattering grains of sand across the painting. The artist looked up in disgusted annoyance trying gently to brush them off the fresh oil paint. Not all of them were possible to remove.
As the little girl grew up, the signed painting had been bought by her parents and framed well at the time. But her mother eventually became old and unwell, and the girl who had by now reached middle age herself, asked her mother if she could have the painting some day in the future. Her father had already sadly passed away and her older brother also. She still remembers him helping to push the long wooden rowing boats up onto the beach wearing his red shirt, included in the small oil painting, that hot summer's day during their holidays.
The artist was Norma Bull who was born in 1906 and died in Melbourne in 1980, aged 74, an Australian artist best known for her painting, drawing and etchings. She lived and worked in England from 1938-1947, when she returned to Australia to continue painting. Her home known as 'Medlow' was built in 1889 and bought by the Bull family in 1911, her mother being a great lover of music and the arts. It was bequeathed at one stage to the National Trust, but since sold back into private ownership. Norma's father Dr Richard Bull, was a lecturer in bacteriology during WWI and developed typhoid vaccines. He was President of the British Medical Association in 1926.
The small oil painting scene was eventually passed down to the author of this short story, now also 74, having taken up watercolour painting herself at the mature age of 71. She still gazes up at the painting hanging on her living room wall and occasionally gently runs her fingertips over its surface to feel the few grains of sand that still remain.
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